Taken, but this time, there's no Liam Neeson
by mariapawlak24
Summary: Peter Parker is used to his infamous 'Parker luck', so it's no surprise when the paper stops paying him, and, long story short, he's homeless. It is a surprise, however, when he's captured by a mysterious group who seem to have targeted him specifically. And, he's even more surprised when he realizes his cell-mate is none other than Tony Freaking Stark.
1. Chapter 1

I would say I'm sorry, Peter, but the truth is, your photos have always been low in quality. We needed you because you seemed to be the ONLY one who could get photos, but now, everyone has a camera in their back pocket. We can copy paste better photos from free sources on the internet. We can't accept your photos anymore.

We can't accept your photos anymore.

The words rang in Peter's head, hours later. Yesterday, he had been employed, (at least MOSTLY employed, kind of), and with a roof over his head. (Or at least, MOST of a roof). Now, he was without either. His landlady, bless her spiteful black heart, had kicked him out. He supposed it wasn't technically her fault, but come on, he saved the city on a daily basis! Wasn't that rent enough? (He saved mugging victims, at least. Maybe a couple bikes that had faulty locks. Occasionally he dealt with real villains-remember the Goblin, anyone?)

Now, he sat, more than twenty stories in the air, on the edge of a windowsill. An empty hot dog bun lay forlornly in his palm. There were the remnant stains of mustard and ketchup (relish is for people who like turkey dogs), but the white bun lay empty. Perched up on the windowsill, he tried to distract himself with the view of New York sprawled out in front of him. It practically sparkled in the night. You couldn't see any stars through the light pollution, but it barely mattered if you were up high enough. The city itself was beautiful, lights twinkling beneath him almost like the stars hidden above. Perhaps if he had been closer to the ground, he could have seen the dirt and grime, but even that thought made him smile. New York was like no other city. Even it's filth was special.

He raised his hot dog (or lack thereof) to his mouth, regretfully remembering a time when food was one of the few things he didn't have to worry about. Even though her cooking had been mediocre at best, Peter could always rely on Aunt May. But now, he couldn't afford to go and buy a new hot dog, despite the fact he had been so careless as to let the meat fall right out of the bun. That had probably been a not-so-fun surprise for whoever he had been swinging over, he thought, the image of a lawyer on the East Side suddenly being beaned over the head with a hot dog from the Bronx bringing a smile to his face.

The smile slowly slipped off his face as he chewed the first bite of slightly stale, slightly mustardy bread. His mask was thrown behind him, on the slightly cleaner of the two blankets he had brought with him from the apartment. That, a few pairs of jeans, a couple of t-shirts, and his spider-suit was basically all he had brought with him.

Luckily, he wasn't worried about his being discovered here, hidden away on the top floor of an abandoned building. It was scheduled for demolition in a few months, but until then, Peter was fairly confident no one else could get to the top floor. There were too many missing flights of stairs and broken elevators to do that. And, Peter thought wryly, the roof probably would not be able to support even the smallest of helicopters. So, unless you could fly, you were out of luck. Or unless you had spider-like abilities, he thought to himself, fiddling idly with his broken web-slinger. He still had two working ones (one and a half, his brain corrected) but they were running out of the material, and he couldn't afford to buy more. He couldn't even afford to buy food. He ate the rest of his hot dog bun frustratedly, finishing it in a few bites. His metabolism begged for more, but he ignored it.

He hopped down to his makeshift bed, hoping to catch a few hours of much-needed rest before his patrol that night. He needn't have hoped, because as soon as his head hit the ground where a pillow should have been, he was fast asleep.

"Yes, I'm aware JARVIS," Tony said, the annoyance dripping off his voice in waves. "But, as I told you all day, I don't care."

"Sir, I know you're missing the team, but this could be serious." JARVIS insisted. Tony wondered if it had been a good idea to give JARVIS so much of a personality. Or free thought at all.

"Not as serious as I am about you shutting it," Tony said, almost absentmindedly as he tinkered with the reactor beam in front of him.

"Shutting what, sir?" JARVIS responded, as if he knew exactly what he was saying. Tony didn't doubt that he did, and therefore he ignored his creation. If JARVIS wanted to be touchy, he would have to go bother someone else. Even though, technically speaking, there was no one else in the penthouse with them. Or, really, with Tony. He wasn't sure if JARVIS counted enough as a person to make it a 'them'. He certainly hoped so, because if not, well then his life was just sad. And Tony Stark refused to make his life sad.

"There!" Tony said finally, triumphantly hoisting a shining metal cuff up in the air.

"Sir, if I may be so bold-"

"You may not," Tony cut in quickly, barely giving the AI another thought. He slipped the cuff under his sleeve and fiddled with it for a moment before grinning in what was unadulterated joy. He raised his arm and shot the glass window in front of himself, shattering it soundlessly with a quick white light from his wrist.

"Impressive," JARVIS said flatly.

"Let's see you invent a new type of blaster in an hour and a half," Tony said, casually aiming at the pane of glass still intact. He closed one eye for good measure, and fired, throwing more shards of glass to the ground. He allowed a small smile to turn his lips for a moment before gesturing to a clunky robot in the corner of his now glass covered lab.

"Dummy, clean this up," Tony instructed, waving a finger to the mess he had strewn across the lab's interior. The slow robot wheeled his way over, taking corners even slower.

Tony walked toward the exit door, not pausing as it opened automatically in front of him.

"Sir, your eleven o'clock is still waiting," JARVIS reminded him with a proverbial nudge.

"What time is it now?" He asked, wiping the grease off his upper arms with a silk towel.

"Quarter past twelve," He responded, the unapproving tone apparent in his false tinny voice.

"Wonderful," Tony said, throwing the towel behind him as he walked into the elevator to his main floor, the floor for guests, and the public, and other unscrupulous things. On a good day, he'd only have to go here once, or maybe not at all. Today was not a good day. First, his new assistant got his coffee order wrong, so she had to be fired. Again. Secondly, he'd already had to be to the main floor once for the bimonthly board meeting. Generally speaking, he skipped those meetings, but JARVIS warned him that he was beginning to lose his footing with the board. Again. So, all in all, this would be his third trip to the forty-second floor. Which, of course, made today three times worse than days he did not go to forty-second floor.

"Mr. Stark?" As soon as the elevator doors dinged open, a tall, lithe woman stepped up from her seat, carrying a dark clipboard. Her delicate high heels made her appear almost six feet tall, maybe even taller. It certainly felt over six feet tall to Tony, at least.

"I'm here to discuss the damages to the Central IP Building from three and a half weeks ago," She said directly, without a preamble of any sorts.

"The what now?" He responded distractedly, running his hands through his hair, which was still a mess from his short period in the lab.

"Your little 'test run', Mr. Stark, destroyed almost the entire seventh floor. Despite all your messing around, flying a suit from the comfort of your home might actually have consequences," She finished sharply, looking him up and down.

"Oh," Tony said slowly, looking everywhere in the room but her. "Oh!" He said, louder a few moments later. "I remember that. Just bill me." He waved his hand nonchalantly.

"That's not what I'm worried about. I'm worried about it happening again. I'm tired of you buying your way out of every problem you have."

"Honey, if I could buy my way out of all my problems, you'd be meeting with a very different man right now," Tony said, his voice condescending.

"I'm not smiling, Mr. Stark. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me 'honey'."

"Well, what do you prefer? Long legs? Blondie?" He smirked at her.

"Jamie Wainwright would do just fine," She said, matching his smirk even better. "I run the building in question.

"Well, my apologies, Miss Wainwright. What would you have me do, if not offer to pay for any and all damages I caused?" He asked, his confidence unwavering.

"I would have you publically agree to disengage in any 'experiments' on public property, or at the very least, sign this." She handed him a clipboard. He took it reluctantly.

"What does this state?" He asked, flipping through the pages.

"Basically, that you take full responsibility, and that it won't happen again." She said, tilting her nose upwards.

"Fine by me," Tony said, jotting his signature quickly. He knew that it was dangerous to sign things before his lawyers (of which there were dozens) had looked it over, but he couldn't bring himself to schedule yet another meeting in this godforsaken floor.

"Just like that?" Miss. Wainwright asked, finally a little taken off guard.

"Just like that," Tony said with a wink. "If that's all, I've got other things to attend to."

"I suppose that is all," Wainwright said slowly, still staring at the signed contract in her hands.

"If there's anything weird about that contact I didn't notice when I signed it, my lawyers will be all over you and your building before you can say 'court date', alright?" Tony added as he walked away from the still-shocked Wainwright.

As soon as he was out of ear-shot, he addressed his own personal assistant, the currently un-fired one. "JARVIS?" He hopped back in the elevator, enjoying the privacy of being the only one in his own private elevator.

"Yes, sir?" Came JARVIS's programmed response.

"Can you please do me a favor, and buy the Central IP Building on Fourth street as soon as possible? Wave through any waiting fees, there's no cap on this." Tony instructed, a slightly wicked smile on his face that no one could see but him, in the gleaming shine of his polished elevator interiors.

"Yes, sir," JARVIS responded after a moment of silence.

"I don't remember programming you to question my decisions," Tony said, tilting his face toward the ceiling, raising one eyebrow.

"No, you programmed me to be smart, remember? Something you seem to have forgotten about," Came the snarky reply.

"Just do it," Tony repeated, stepping out of the elevator, a definite knot in his tight shoulders.

"Very well," JARVIS agreed, with what could have been a sigh, but AI's don't sigh. Right?

Peter woke up to the feeling of water, drenching him to the bone. It was raining, and from the looks of it, had been raining for quite some time. Or rather, from the feel of it. Peter's whole body was shaking, and he was drenched, his suit and himself sopping wet. He hopped up quickly and moved, away from the window and into some shelter, but the damage was done.

"Perfect," He said dejectedly, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain falling all around them. His mask was still dry, at least. A silver lining? No, not really. Just a coincidence.

Might as well go patrol now, he thought, disheartened by the idea. He stood up slowly, gripping his mask.

"At least the rain won't bother me now that I'm already wet," He said aloud, to no one in particular as he pulled his mask over his face and leaped from his twentieth story windowsill, arms stretching wide in a swan dive.

" This is more like it!" Peter exclaimed loudly, his voice lost in the wind and rain. He kept falling, tucking and doing a summersault mid-air before shooting his webbing straight across the street, hooking onto a building across from him, the line secure, even in the downpour.

While he was swinging across the city, nothing, not a downpour, not homelessness, not even Aunt May's death (mostly) made him sad. It was just him, the air, and the city. And the rain, right now. He concentrated, trying to feel for something, somebody to go save. Or at least help.

As he swung around New York City during the wee hours of the morning, he found himself thinking, unironically, as he always did, that This is the city that truly doesn't ever sleep. Even when some people probably should. Peter noted as he swung over some young kids who couldn't have been older than himself walking around, obviously intoxicated. He let them go, shaking his head minutely. He'd been drunk, truly drunk, only twice in his life, the day M.J. broke up with him, and then the night after Aunt May's funeral. His metabolism made it harder to get drunk, which wasn't always something he disliked. It had come in handy in the past, a fond memory of himself drinking round after round with Harry and only feeling a light buzz coming to mind for a moment. He quickly crushed it, not wanting to think about what had happened only three months later.

"HELP!" A scream from a few blocks over caught Peter's attention, and as if on a dime in the mid-air, he turned, twisting and slinging his webbing to a building southwest of him. She couldn't be too far away.

In a few seconds, he arrived. He let himself drop twenty feet from the second story to the ground, a loose easy feeling in his shoulders. Homeless, who? He was Spider-Man, defender of the meek and helpless.

But, somehow this woman didn't seem helpless. There was smile on her face, and a bright look in her eye. The two men behind her were wearing ski masks, their expression unreadable, but their stance was meant to be threatening. Peter took a step back, shrugging his shoulders.

"Can I help you tonight, gentlemen? Lady?" He asked, bouncing lightly from one foot to the other, glancing at the three faces in front of him, all of which were still silent. "Coulda sworn I heard someone ask specifically for help from right over here, like, two seconds ago," He prompted uneasily, a smile still wavering on his face beneath the mask. The rain fell harder. The woman's hair was plastered to her skull in a wet matte, strands seemingly glued to her face.

"I knew there was something fishy about this," Peter said after another silent moment, his spidey-sense now pounding in his head, a soundless but deafening warning in the back of his mind.

"Nothing fishy at all," Said the woman suddenly, fishing in her handbag for a moment. "I did ask for your help. Hollered for it, even. We need it after all."

"We?" Asked Spidey, but not before all three of them pulled out a gun, something small but foreboding and aimed it directly at him.

"Wait a moment," Spider-Man said, raising his hands slowly, fingers poised on the web-shooters. Just as he pressed down, and leapt, aiming for their arms, all three shot him, as if on cue, embedding him with huge darts, two on his torso, and one particularly painful one in his neck.

"What..." Was all Peter could croak out as he fell to the ground, landing in a puddle, splashing the three of them with cold dirty rainwater. They seemed not to notice as they crowded in closer, studying their captured prey.

"If I'm not supposed to send the suit out alone," Tony said snidely, stepping into the Iron Man suit, "Then I guess I'll just have to go with it." He raised his head a few inches, addressing his AI. "If I happen to die in this untested suit, please hold the funeral in Miami, and also sue the shit out of Miss what's-her-name from today, thanks."

JARVIS didn't respond.

"You'll regret that, if I truly do die," He prodded the program, glancing around his ceiling, even though he knew better than anyone that just because his speakers were in the ceiling tile and on the upper levels, it didn't mean JARVIS himself was. Bad habits.

"It's on your head, then," Said Tony, and then he launched himself out of the window.

He dropped a few feet and then kicked in the repulsors, soaring dozens of feet above even the tallest buildings in seconds. The rain from the last night was gone, but the whole city seemed to have a wet gleam as Tony kept rising, his shining city becoming smaller and smaller until it seemed like a toy set. And then, he plummeted into a controlled dive, spinning until he couldn't see straight. And he loved it.

Feet before he hit the roof of a building underneath him, he righted himself, pushing himself upward with the repulsors, shooting up into the sky just as quickly as he fell. This is what being a billionaire was all about. The suit from the cave in Afghanistan was but a distance memory as he flew among the buildings with ease, passing each one with what would have given a lesser man whiplash.

Suddenly though, his left side faltered.

"JARVIS?" He asked quickly from inside the helmet. "JARVIS, what was that?" The repulsers sputtered once, and then went out. Tony went into a tailspin, approaching the ground quickly. He did his best to aim for an unpopulated area. Maybe he should have listened to that woman from this morning and been more careful with his suits and their excursions, he thought for a split second as he crashed through a window, glass shattering around him and his new suit. The building was long abandoned, thank god, and he shot out the other side, breaking through a plywood planking covering where the other window should have been.

At least I slowed myself down. Tony thought dryly as he came to crashing halt in the alley behind the building. Where on earth was he?

He pressed the side of his mask lightly. Nothing happened. He tapped it harder until he was basically pounding on his metal neck. Finally, his mask retracted.

"JARVIS! What the hell was that?" Tony asked, breathless.

"I'm afraid JARVIS can't hear you anymore," Said a voice, stepping out from the shadows streaming around the buildings. The sunset would have beautiful, Tony thought, if only he could see it past the skyscrapers around him.

"Who are you supposed to be, and what have you done with JARVIS?" Tony asked calmly, his metal feet making his footsteps sound heavy.

"I've hacked him, of course. Oh, and I've hacked your suit. I expected it to be empty, but" She shrugged, and hit a button on her iPad. Tony's suit was forced to it's knees. "This is a nice surprise."

With that, she crouched, and leaned in close to Tony's face, close enough for him to smell her perfume. It was expensive, and very light. Something floral, he thought absentmindedly, his brain still working a mile a minute. Hack JARVIS? Who was this woman? Just as he was formulating what was looking to be a very witty response, he felt something sting his neck.

"Goodnight," She said, smirking just like that woman had earlier today, as if she held all the cards. Except, thought Tony cynically, this woman did hold all the cards. He felt himself waver and then topple over. His neck kept pounding, a smarting pain that throbbed. He pulled his hand up to feel it, but either it or the suit didn't respond, and soon, nothing did.

They had him. They had both of them.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Peter noticed when he woke up was that he was dry, finally. The second thing was that he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. A hand flew up to his face, grasping at it's features. His mask. Where was it? Panic flew through Peter for a moment, and he sat up instantly. As soon as he did, his head spun and his stomach turned over.

He didn't know where he was.

The room he was in wasn't small, but it wasn't large either. In the city, it would be a good sized bedroom, he thought in the back of his mind. He turned, the absence of his suit making him feel more naked than the boxers. There were no windows, and the walls were a dark stone gray with a rough texture. His eyes darted from corner to corner, trying to take it in.

He jumped at least a foot in the air when he finally noticed him. In the opposite corner, huddled , in a thin blanket, was the shape of a man. He was maybe a few inches taller, and a little wider than Peter himself. Peter quieted, hiding his face in a visceral reaction from the still sleeping figure. What he wouldn't give for his mask right now… He cursed his luck inwardly. Of course he would be kidnapped, and of course his suit would be taken. It's not like he had the money for another suit! At the reminder, his stomach growled, which, given the situation, was just plain rude. Peter made the executive decision to ignore it and hope it didn't happen again.

And, as with all things, especially those of the 'bad' variety, they seemed to travel in numbers. The man in the corner put a serious wrench in any of the plans Peter had been formulating. He couldn't just use his powers and escape, because A, he wasn't sure that would work, and B, he couldn't reveal his identity.

"Who the hell are you?" Snarled the voice from the corner suddenly. Peter jumped back, his spine flat against the wall. If the floor had suddenly dropped out from beneath the two of them, he would have been fine, clinging to that wall.

"I'm-" His mind raced. He wasn't Spider-Man, obviously, but using his real name was out too, so... He glanced at the man again, mainly to stall for time, and his jaw dropped in recognition. . It couldn't be - no way. There was absolutely no way. For a moment, a strange, backwards moment, Peter's heart leapt with joy and excitement.

"You're Tony Stark!" Peter's jaw was practically hanging open.

Mr. Stark closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed deeply. "I asked who you are, kid."

Despite the fact Peter was talking to the richest man in New York, he couldn't stop the instinctive reply: "I'm not a kid," Peter blurted back. Unlike when he used to complain to Aunt May, or defend himself from beat cops, it was actually true. He was twenty-two now, not a kid by anyone's definition.

"Okay, Mr. Not-A-Kid, who are you then?" Mr. Stark got to his feet, a hand leaning heavily on the wall for support.

"Uh-" He hesitated for a moment before saying, meekly, "Peter."

"Do you have a last name there, 'Peter', or is it more mumbling?" He asked, looking around the room. He saw the locked door, the gray walls, the lack of windows.

His expression seemed to soften marginally when he saw the young man's terrified face.

"Peter Morgan," Peter introduced himself, scratching the back of his neck. Stark nodded, a small thoughtful gesture, and went right back to studying their small cell.

Peter studied the billionaire, seeing little things he hadn't noticed at first slipping through the cracks. His features were worn, and the bags around his eyes hung deeply. He wondered if he had bags to match, or if his healing ability had hidden his own exhausted state. Mr. Stark's goatee was scruffy, and a five o'clock shadow was beginning to take over the carefully manicured face.

"Got anything to say, Parker?" He said, after deciding on what to call the kid standing across from him in their little room.

"You know, I usually do, but, right now-" Peter trailed off, searching detachedly about the room. A crazed part of him was telling him to impress Tony Stark (Tony Stark!), but the rational part of him was telling him to keep it together long enough to escape. (Even as he thought it, the pessimistic side of his brain asked why. What was waiting for him? Abandoned buildings?)

The two of them stood in silence for a long time, Mr. Stark's singular blanket crumpled on the floor behind them. It was the only sign that either of them had actually slept there. There was no bathroom, and nothing to distinguish the walls from each other or from the ceiling, apart from the thick metallic unmarked door.

"So," Peter said, his voice cracking in the room's silence. "I guess, you probably don't know much about me-"

"Kid, I know nothing about you," His voice was distracted, bordering on uninterested.

"There's not much to know, I guess." He paused, and looked around nervously. "How do we get out of here?" He continued after a second, his left heel scuffing the cement ground nervously. He needed to think logically about how to leave this place. They didn't even know the people they were dealing with. Or if 'they' were people at all, thought Peter, thinking of the invasion of New York.

"You're a civilian?" Was all he said in response. Peter glanced at him, taken aback.

"I mean - yes. I'm a civilian. Normal, run-of-the-mill friendly civilian." He cocked a slight grin toward Stark, and considered offering his hand to shake, but thought better of it. Too soon, Parker.

"You're a weird civilian," Stark replied, walking over to the door.

Peter's stomach fell a few inches and he felt his shoulders curl in. "Weird?"

"Anybody I know would be losing it right now," Stark said, running his hands along the edge of the doorframe. "Of course." He shrugged, "I don't exactly know too many civilians personally anymore."

"Well, you know," Peter said sheepishly, crossing his arms over his chest, "I'm a New Yorker, right? We're used to it."

"So, where you from? In the city, I mean." Stark said. He'd started tapping different spots across the door in a way that seemed like it might be intentional, but really didn't look it. Despite himself, Peter felt the urge to roll his eyes. . Was Tony making pleasant small-talk while they were holed up in some dungeon?

"And,also," Stark straighten, and turned to Peter. "Where are your clothes?"

Before Peter could sputter out an answer, he and Mr. Stark heard a click in the door's lock. The glanced at each other for a split second before swiveling to face the door.

Tony's expression hardened automatically, and he took a slightly defensive stance, his legs loose and his shoulders a little higher around his head. Peter just wished he was wearing more clothes. (Spandex was not the same as underwear, no matter what M.J. used to say)

The door began to swing open, creaking on its hinges. Peter's stomach churned with fear, and he glanced to his side at Tony's stone cold expression, wishing he could emulate it. He settled for what always made him feel better - stupid smiles and even more stupid jokes. An easy smile that didn't quite touch his eyes settled on his face. His new roommate didn't seem to notice.

The door was fully open. The woman from the night before - Peter was gonna call her Lady Spidernapper - stood under the frame, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She was wearing business attire, a smart jacket and tight pencil skirt. Her heels were tall, spindly, and thoroughly professional.

"What do you want with us?" Stark said. It wasn't really a question.

This was the point where Peter probably could've said something really cool, like 'You'll never get away with this' or 'The Avengers are gonna find us you know.' Unfortunately however, what came out of his mouth was: "This place is only getting two stars from me."

Tony gave him a frustrated look that he ignored. There were bigger fish to fry. Namely, the woman standing forebodingly in the doorway of their cell. The question hung in the air for a moment until, without warning, Stark leapt forward, fist cocked. She sidestepped him delicately, clicking a small button on a remote at her side, forcing him to fall to the ground suddenly, teeth clenched in pain.

"Make that one star," Peter amended, his voice light.

"You can be quiet, Peter," The woman said. Her voice was like it had been that night, lilting, as if she knew a secret about everyone in the room. "Nice boxers, though."

Peter shrank back minutely, shoulders hunching instinctually at the comment, as if to hide himself from her view.

"Leave the kid alone," He croaked out from his spot on the cement below them.

"Oh, dear." She clicked her remote again, and Stark gasped in relief, getting to his feet slowly. Peter noticed with uneasiness that his limbs were shaking.

"Sorry," Peter said to Mr. Stark, scanning his neck worriedly.

"Don't worry, Peter, you've got one too," She wiggled the remote in the air in front of them both. His stomach turned.

"I said," Stark took a deep breath. "Leave the kid alone."

"Now, that would defeat the whole purpose of him being here, would it not?" She said, her demeanor still difficult to read. It was a cross between receptionist and executioner.

"Mr. Stark, I can take of myself," Peter said, not taking his eyes off the woman in front of them or her remote.

"I'm sure you can," The woman replied, her eyes focused on Tony.

"Kid…" Stark said, his eyebrows contracted worryingly.

"Now," The woman walked further into their cell, leaving the door behind her open. Craning his neck, Peter could see a long, similarly gray hallway laid behind her.

"Now…" Peter repeated, impatience and fear making his skin crawl, and his filter break down even further. Assuming, of course, he had much of a filter to begin with. Which he didn't.

"Peter, do I need to tell you to be quiet again?" She asked, sounding eerily like a school teacher. Her head tilted slightly to one side, a knowing look gleaming in her eyes. Stark threw a warning look Peter's way, and intervened.

"What do you want with us?" He asked quickly, taking back control of the conversation.

"Very different things, I assure you," she said with a gracious smile that neither of them trusted for a moment.

"Peter is interesting simply because of what he is," She explained, walking between them slowly.

"Could you be more vague?" Stark asked, his hands still in fists. Peter kept quiet, afraid he'd let too much slip if he said anything now. Keeping his hero and personal lives separate and his secret identity intact had always been like balancing on a tightrope, but right now, he felt like he was about to fall off.

"But, you, Mr. Stark, our surprise guest, you're interesting because of who you are. Your mind…" She sighed contentedly, but the vicious, calculating gleam in her eye remained right where it was. "It's amazing."

"Well, call my people. I'm sure my hourly rates are far above what you can afford," Mr. Stark said. She simply raised the remote again, causing him to flinch. His face reddened, and Peter watched as he physically tried to keep his anger contained.

"But," She clapped, studying her two prisoners appraisingly. "Now, I'm just here for the lovely Peter...Morgan, did you say? Tony, we'll be back soon. Or maybe," she said, looking Peter up and down, "Maybe a little longer than soon."

"Finally going to show me where the bathroom is, then?" Peter asked, firmly ignoring the fear swirling in his stomach. Since he felt like he was about to throw up, he'd say that was an accomplishment in and of itself.

"If I must, but I admit, we have bigger plans." She winked conspiratorially at him. Then she turned to address Tony. "We'll be back, and I expect you to remain in good behavior. If not…" She cocked her head warningly at him. "Well, you'd certainly feel terrible if something happened to this innocent young man, wouldn't you?"

"I'll be fine, Mr. Stark," Peter said, his voice sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he felt.

The door closed behind him and the woman, a heavy resounding thump that echoed across the hall around them. They were alone.

Just as the door shut behind them, Tony ran forward, pounding on it. He highly doubted her little remote would work through the metal and cement that surrounded him now that the door was shut.

"Don't! Hurt! Him!" He shouted, his voice raw. He wondered if his voice could be heard through the door. He saw as Peter glanced back and gave a tiny, wavering smile, but the woman just kept walking forward, the click of her heels almost silent through the thick door. After they had disappeared behind a corner, Tony lingered for a moment, half hoping to see Peter running back, alone, holding the key to their release. When another ten seconds passed to no avail, he accepted his situation.

He wasn't sure what exactly was with that Peter kid, but he didn't trust him. Well, Tony considered carefully, dropping to a crossed legged position on his blanket, trust wasn't quite the right word. The way he had talked to that woman – he still didn't know her name – that was real. It had been confident, he had been confident. It's one thing to make the stupid jokes, but another altogether to be level-headed. Peter hadn't been angry, or stammering, or making any jokes nervously. His voice was as steady as always.

While he had been talking to Tony, he was stammering, blushing, and excitable, but there had still been a very calculated exterior. He didn't know anyone, not one person, Avenger or not, that would have responded to this situation with a smile like Peter had. Tony remembered his lopsided grin, somehow carefree and inviting. Tony shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. Maybe the kid was just clinically insane. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he rolled his eyes. I have to get out of here. Enough about Morgan. But, even as he thought that, something didn't feel right in the back of his mind. He scowled at himself, and repeated the thought.

WE have to get out of here.


	3. Chapter 3

"Is this place even _on_ Yelp?" Peter asked as he looked around, noting the same grey walls in the hallway as in his own cell. The woman ignored him. He wondered if she would be doing a lot of that in the hours to come.

"This way, Mr. Parker," She said, pausing by a door.

Peter's heart stopped for a moment. "Um-I'm sorry-I don't-"

"Peter Parker, age 22, graduated Midtown High, attended Bronx College until the death of your aunt in freshman year." Her voice was bored, clerical. "Needless to say, we know who you are." She smiled, a tight, strained expression that didn't reach her eyes, and gestured for him to come inside the room. "We've been waiting a long time for you."

It was impossible to come up with a witty reply to that. How long had they known? Had the last year of bad luck ( _worse_ luck) really _been_ just bad luck? A thought crossed his mind, a thought that chilled him to the core. Were they behind the car crash that took Aunt May's life?

"Peter? What are you waiting for?" She asked, leaning coyly on the doorway. "This room was made with you specifically in mind."

Peter took a step forward, dread pounding in his ears in time with his spidey-sense. Every fiber of his being was telling him to run, to do whatever he could do to get out, but he remembered Tony's incident, and kept moving. His feet shuffled softly against the floor, the pad of his foot making nearly silent _flops_ against the floor.

As soon as he was inside, a chill entered his body. A chair, almost like a dentist's chair, stood alone in the center of the room. There were sturdy looking straps attached to each arm, and one long one attached to the bottom, presumably for his legs. A table stood next to it, gleaming metal. Chests and boxes rest upon it, and Peter's mind couldn't stop wondering about what might be inside of them, as much as he tried to squish down the thought.

"Well?" The woman entered after him, giving a sweeping gesture to the room around her. A sparkle of pride shone in her eye. "How does it look?"

"I'd rather be at the dentist," Peter said, backing away from the chair with one tiny unnoticeable step. "And, that's saying something, cause I haven't been to the dentist in years."

"I'm sure we'll explore those teeth of yours eventually, if it makes you feel any better," Said the woman, who sounded like she knew full well it wouldn't make him feel any better at all.

"Oscar," She snapped her fingers and then pointed at Peter. A man - presumably Oscar - walked up from a dark corner of the room. He approached Peter, carefully and slowly, as if he were approaching a fierce predator. Peter didn't move. He was stronger than this guy - he knew that. Despite the fact Oscar was built like a pro wrestler, he knew that he had to be stronger than him. He had the strength of a spider! Or, a human sized spider, at least.

A part of his pride protested as Oscar led him to the chair. His feet dragged, he pulled his arms from Oscar's grip. The woman zapped him quickly with her remote, causing all of Peter's muscles to seize at once, and he fell to his knees. She stopped, almost immediately.

"I want to start with a prime specimen." She told Oscar conversationally. Peter's breathing was still a little ragged in the background.

"Get up," Oscar said, his voice deep and rough. Peter climbed into the chair, his body shaking slightly. _Goddamn it, keep it together Parker,_ he thought desperately as the straps were being pulled over his lean forearms and legs. He tested them, breathing heavily. They held. There wasn't even any leeway.

"Like I said," The woman began, pulling on a white lab coat. "We've been waiting a long time for you."

"Where's your name tag?" Peter asked. "Usually lab coats have name tags," He pointed out, nodding toward the woman's breast pocket, where there was nothing. "You know." He shrugged as best he could. "Hello, My Name Is…"

"Cute." She snapped a face mask over the bottom part of her face, and turned to the table beside her.

"I've been trying to get a tight ten down, but you know how it is," Peter said, looking anywhere than the metal chests. "Superhero-ing keeps you busy."

"You'll have plenty of time alone with your thoughts now," The woman said with what could have almost been a chuckle. Peter barely noticed, the only thing running through his mind was the image of the woman, now holding a knife. It was long and thin, and razor sharp.

"Before we get started," she said, delicately placing the knife on the lid of the chest she had retrieved it from, "we'll need to know your vitals."

Oscar walked up again, bringing a hospital machine up with him. It wheeled next to Peter, wires and tubes hanging off it like a thousand tiny snakes. He taped them to Peter's different spots on Peter's body methodically, almost automatically, like he'd done this before: , one snug against his temple, two on either side of his torso, one directly over his heart. As soon as Oscar flipped a switch, Peter's heart rate was broadcasted across the room, a steady if quick beeping pattern echoing across the cement walls. It was slightly erratic, every beep an announcement of how Peter was feeling. (Scared, is how he was feeling. _Scared, scared, scared, beep, beep, beep._ )

"I think that about covers it," She said, wiping her hands and picking up the knife again.

"What are you going to do with that?" Peter asked, his voice slightly higher than he would have liked it.

"You've got a fantastic healing ability," The woman drew her eyebrows together and shook her head in appreciation. "I'd go so far as to call it miraculous even. I've watched videos where you take two, three, four bullets, and you're out on patrol again the next day." She clicked her tongue, dragging the knife along Peter's pale skin, her voice soft and crooning. "Imagine what your blood, your healing ability could do for the world? Heal every sickness, end every disease?" She gave him a comforting look. "That's the work of a _true_ hero."

"I prefer my blood to stay on the inside of my body, actually," Peter said, squirming slightly underneath the light touch of the blade. How on earth did he know what she was going to do with the blood? For all he knew, she might just sell it on the black market, and earn herself a cool million. For all he knew, she would kill him, and take his corpse as spoils, and then just sell _that_ on the black market.

"Well, we're not drawing blood yet." She laughed, and reconsidered. "I suppose we are, but not strictly medically speaking. I mean that we are going to test the lengths of your healing ability first. It's more of a...curiosity, really."

"How far are you going for these 'lengths'?'" Peter asked. "An alive Spider-Man in the hand is worth two dead ones in the bush, you know."

"I don't know where you think we're getting two Spider-Men, but it'd be a waste to kill you, especially after all the trouble we've gone to." Peter's heart sank at that.

She turned, whispered something unintelligible in Oscar's ear. He left the room, closing the door softly behind him. It was just Peter and her now.

"So, where should we begin?" She dipped the knife lightly into the soft skin of Peter's inner elbow, watching his blood pool in the crook of his arm. Peter winced slightly, but said nothing. A moment later, she wiped it away. Peter looked down at his arm. Where a second ago had been a cut, there was now a small white half-moon scar imprinted on his skin. And by tomorrow, even that would be gone, no doubt.

"See?" Peter said. "I heal. Look, there's even proof. Can we be done now?"

"But we've barely scratched the surface," She murmured, glancing up at the machine.

"That's what I'm worried about," Peter said under his breath.

"Some would consider this a fatal cut," She said,and suddenly dug her knife all along his upper forearm, splitting the vein. Blood gushed everywhere, and Peter gasped up at the ceiling, his chest heaving for air. His head spun, and he felt bile rising in the back of his throat. _This is just the beginning,_ he thought to himself, unable to stop the miserable feeling rising up in him.

She pulled the knife away, giving him a moment of reprieve before repeating the action on the other arm. This time, Peter couldn't stop the small groan that escaped his lips as the knife cut through his skin. In some ways, he was glad he didn't have his suit now. _I wouldn't be able to afford the dry-cleaning in a million years,_ he thought blearily.

She watched for a moment as he squirmed beneath her, eyeing the machine. His heart had spiked when she had made the incision.

"Oh yes, Spiderman," She said softly, a smile playing on her lips. "This will do very well indeed."

It seemed to go on for hours. She played with the knife, played upon Peter's skin until he couldn't think straight. He had never been in this much pain before. Everywhere hurt - and he meant everywhere, from the tip of his head, all the way to his toes. It was an aching, deep throb across his whole body, one that seemed to pound right alongside the thump of his heart beat, which was still being announced to the room. He began slipping in and out of consciousness, his healing ability and spidey-sense doing everything within their collective power to keep him awake.

A few hours later, she was still pressing on. Peter's breathing was harsh and his heartbeat erratic. She tapped the knife along his white t-shirt (well, it probably _used_ to be white) poking him almost playfully. "Where shall I..." She cut off, and buried the knife up to the hilt in his stomach. Try as he might, Peter couldn't stop the scream that erupted from his lips, somewhere deep in his core. The knife was like fire, burning around his organs. He could feel every serrated edge touching him, the pain nigh unbearable until - she pulled it out, which managed to hurt almost as much as when she pushed it in.

Peter's head pounded, and he wished that he could shut off his spidey-sense, because it kept warning him, minute after minute that danger was here, danger was in this room. _I know there is danger in this room, I can see it right in front of me,_ he thought, staring at the woman. She had blood on her lab coat, but seemed unbothered by it. She was professional, in every way but literally.

She stabbed him again, this time watching the screen the screen carefully. Peter screamed again, a hoarse sound that reverberated in the back of his throat. His vision swam in front of his face, and he thought he was about to lose unconsciousness when he suddenly leaned his head over the side of the chair and vomited on the ground, his agonized stomach heaving.

"Can't have that now, can we?" She asked rhetorically, toeing the mess on the ground with a black boot. "I'll get someone in here to clean that up. We're almost done for the time being, anyway."

She set down the smaller, sturdier knife she had been using and instead picked up a needle. Peter rolled his head back, looking up at the ceiling for reprieve.

"I want to examine your blood while you're resting," She said, testing the syringe.

"Let me know if you find anything worrying," Peter said in a raspy voice. "I'll be seeing a doctor after this anyway."

She didn't respond, but just positioned the needle above his left inner elbow, the one that was still sporting a small scar.

"I'd tell you it's just a small prick, but I think we've passed the point in our relationship where we have to _lie_ to make each other feel better." She said, glancing up at Peter's expression, his face shining with a sheen of sweat and his chest rising rapidly.

She pressed down, inserting the large metal syringe into his skin. Peter groaned, arching his back slightly, squeezing his hands into fists. He could feel every inch of the needle as it pushed it's way into his skin. He watched, caught with morbid fascination as his blood, red and thick, traveled up the clear tube and away to a container behind the table.

"Saving it for later?" Peter asked even as the room swum before him. "Don't tell me vampires are real, now. After today-" He coughed, and spat out some blood, trying desperately to maintain his composure. "After today, I don't think I could take any more surprises."

"I'm not barbaric, Spider-Man," She said confidently, removing the needle and wiping it off on her coat. Peter's eyes widened in disbelief.

"We won't kill you, simply push you, biologically. You have nothing to be afraid of." There was a comforting look that didn't seem to reach the eyes.

As if on cue, Oscar came back in, looking as cool and collected as ever. Peter, shaking, envied him.

"You've lost enough blood to be weakened, I should think." The woman said, fiddling with the bag of blood she had collected. "So, I'm giving you some 'prescribed rest,' straight from your own personal doctor."

"Go to hell," Peter ground out from the chair. Oscar was slowly removing the straps, but Peter was having a difficult time lifting himself from the chair. His whole body ached as if it had been run over by an eighteen wheeler. Twice. His stab wounds were still oozing blood like it was their job, and he was so dizzy that the cell's matching gray walls, floor and ceiling seemed to blend together into one big monochrome haze.

He felt Oscar slip an arm underneath his shoulders, and then the whole room tilted forward. His legs slipped off the chair, and he was walking forward. Well, walking might have been a generous way to put it, but his feet dragged behind him on the ground slowly, occasionally supporting some of his weight, so Peter counted it as a win.

"I'll see you again tomorrow, Peter," The woman said with a look that, in another universe where she hadn't just spent the better part of the day carving into him, could have been kind. "Rest up, now."

Peter focused all his remaining energy on staying upright as he left the room, never so glad to hear a door click shut behind as he was in that moment.

"You're quiet," Peter told Oscar, his words slurred.

"You're rather screamy," Oscar responded, just a hint of an accent in his voice. "I don't like screamy people."

"Rude," Peter said. Despite his best efforts, his voice cracked, and he trailed off. Thankfully, Oscar didn't seem to notice, and kept dragging him down the hallway.

"You're here," Oscar said indelicately after another thirty seconds had passed. He punched in a code outside of Peter and Stark's cell. "Behave until we return for you tomorrow."

Peter raised his arm in a sorry attempt for a parody of a salute, but only managed to make it halfway. _Ay-yay, cap'n,_ he said but he wasn't entirely sure if anyone else but him could hear it.

The door swung open, and Oscar walked Peter a foot inside before leaving him there, closing the door behind him.

It had been five hours - five _hours_ \- since Peter had left with their captor. For once in his thirty-one years, Tony wished he could shut off that billion dollar brain of his, which was going wild with all the possibilities of where Peter was, and what they were doing. The silence that surrounded him seemed heavy enough to suffocate, and the cell walls kept inching closer whenever he wasn't looking. A little part of Tony wished _he_ had been taken away, because at least then he wouldn't be staring at these same four walls for hours, and hours, and hours.

"Dammit!" He shouted suddenly, stopping his pacing long enough to smack the walls with enough force to leave his own hand red. Just then, the door clicked. Tony's head swiveled to the sound, zooming in on the first sound that wasn't made by Tony himself all day. The heavy door opened, revealing a man Tony had never seen before, and Peter. Peter seemed to be balancing very carefully on his feet, a small almost invisible sway in his stance. The most striking thing about his appearance however, was that Peter's form was covered in blood, some dried and cracking, some sticky, and some still slick against his body.

"What?" Tony said, turning to face them. "What did you do?" He asked, anger creeping into his voice, directing himself at the stranger. He said nothing, just closed the door behind him and locked it again.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Peter crumpled, falling forwards, arms outstretched. Tony, lurched forward in surprise, grabbing him, and carefully led him to the ground.

"Peter?" He asked slowly, looking worriedly up and down his small form.

"Sorry," He ground out, scrunching his eyes shut. "It's fine-" He groaned, and shifted over to his side. "It's fine, mostly." He opened his eyes after another tense moment, his gaze locked with Tony. His hair, though sweaty, hung loose around the top of his head, curls falling into his eyes.

"What happened?" He asked, after collecting his thoughts. (Which he usually didn't have to do). There was no answer for a while, only the labored breathing of the young man next to him. "Peter," he tried again, kneeling next to him. "What did they do?"

"Healing factor," Peter grunted.

"What?" He leaned closer. "You have a healing factor?"

"No," he said quickly. "Uh-" he coughed, a little red leaking from the corner of his mouth, " _they_ have a healing factor, and they need a test subject." Peter gestured to himself with bloodied arms. "They injected me after they-" He paused, and his face went a little pale. "Afterward."

He shrugged, a movement to Tony that looked like it hurt. "At least it'll heal, right?" The words sounded like they were meant to be lighthearted, but they were so quiet that Tony could hardly hear them.

"I don't understand, though," He said in a low voice. "I guess they didn't plan on me, but I'm here now, so why not let you go?" Tony said, straightening to pace the room. Peter watched jealousy from the floor. "Just do the experiments on me."

"You're … old?" Peter said, immediately wincing in regret _._

"I'm not that much older than you," Tony said hotly, glancing down at the hurt young man, biting back pity.

"I'm twenty-two," Peter said, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position with a grimace. "You're not."

"I resent that," Tony said, resuming his pacing haughtily.

"Well," He smiled, splitting his lip, "Be glad you aren't twenty-two."

Tony didn't answer, unable to look the young man in the eyes. A few minutes passed, and all he could hear was Peter's ragged breathing. He ignored it for as long as he could. The sound made Tony's chest constrict in a way he didn't like.

"Did I tell you I found the bathroom?" He said suddenly, trying to make conversation. "It's right in there, there's a small sliding door. Surprise, it's the same color as the wall."

Peter nodded slowly, a little more color in his face. "Glad you were busy," He said.

Tony didn't say anything. He hadn't been busy, and it sounded like Peter had been too busy.

"What exactly did she do to do?" He asked after a moment, ceasing his pacing to sit on the floor next to Peter.

"Not much. Little pinch, little poke," Peter laughed, but it sounded broken. Tony's chest tightened again. He wasn't sure if it was pity, or sympathy, or something else.

"Can I?" Tony gestured to where Peter was holding his stomach.

"Knock yourself out," He said, moving his hands away. Tony saw the the blood, he saw the broken t-shirt, he saw the wounds.

"She stabbed you?"

"Twice, actually." Tony cringed as Peter continued, "Nothing but the best for her prisoners."

"A lot of it has already healed," Peter said softly, looking down his arms. "It's the beginning."

"I'm - I'm sorry," Tony said hesitantly. Peter just shut his eyes and nodded in recognition.

Tony waited, but Peter's eyes stayed shut. He was leaning against Tony, getting some blood on the older man's clothes, but somehow, Tony couldn't find it within himself to mind.

Peter's eyelashes were long, and they curled against the pale thin cheekbones of his face. While he was sleeping he looked graceful, every curve in his body perfectly shaped. The only ungraceful thing about the young man next to him was the way his chest rose erratically, and the harsh sound of his irregular breathing. Tony fell asleep like that, several hours later, listening to Peter breath.


	4. Chapter 4

When Peter awoke, his face was buried in someone's shoulder. He pulled back slowly, his head pounding.

"Morning, handsome," A voice said, watching Peter blink groggily.

Peter rubbed his eyes slowly, looking thoroughly confused. "You're...Tony Stark?" He said slowly, taking stock of the man he had just woken up next to.

"Last I checked," Tony responded. It looked like he had been awake for a while. "How are you feeling?"

Suddenly, Peter remembered. The woman, the knife, _everything_. "Uh-" he looked around the room. "Fine, I think." His body ached slightly, but nothing compared to yesterday.

"Incredible," Tony breathed, his hand reaching subconsciously for Peter's now healed stomach.

"Isn't it?" Peter said bitterly, dragging himself to his feet.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," Stark spoke up again, and handed Peter a large bread roll. It was covered in light brown sauce. Peter noticed a pitcher of water in the corner, more than half full. "The tap water is okay to drink too, I think," He added, gesturing to the small bathroom.

Peter took it wordlessly, suddenly remembering that his last meal had been a hot dog roll, more than twenty-four hours ago.

"Well, eat up. You need energy. Whatever their serum is doing to you must take the wind out of you," Tony said, leaning back against the wall. "And if you won't, I will."

Peter took a bite out of the roll, the thick savory taste filling his mouth. He was so hungry. Why hadn't he noticed how hungry he was? He took another bite quickly. He couldn't get enough.

"This is really good," He said through the bread, his speech muffled.

"I'm glad you're enjoying our five-star stay," Tony said wryly.

"Hey, it's free food," Peter said, only half joking. Yesterday felt so far away now that his stomach was full and his wounds had healed.

"If we ever get out of here, you won't have to worry about paying for food ever again," Tony said offhandedly, smiling at Peter as he scarfed down the rest of the roll. His stomach grumbled, wishing for more.

"I'll hold you to that," Peter warned him, finishing the roll with a lick of his fingers. Tony pursed his lips.

"What, you're going to judge me for not being polite? Here? Now?" Peter smiled widely and finished licking his fingers, not letting any sauce go to waste.

Tony raised his hands in defeat.

"How long have you been up?" Peter asked, settling into a sitting position near the pitcher of water.

"A few hours," He responded, taking a seat next to him. "I've been waiting for you to wake up."

Peter's face turned red.

"Sorry," He mumbled.

"It's fine. I figure we're both going to get pretty lonely in here," Tony said off-handedly, a smirk dancing on his face.

Peter didn't know how to respond. He knew Tony's . . . varied sexual history and any sentence like that probably meant nothing. Or, it meant exactly what it sounded like, which made Peter feel even more uncomfortable.

"Lighten up, kid," Tony said, as the silence stretched on. "Like I said, you and I are each other's only company for the foreseeable future." He shrugged, turning to Peter. "Not that I _don't_ wish you were a leggy blonde, but you seem friendly enough."

"High praise," Peter said with a snort.

"Look," Tony said, rolling his eyes at Peter again. "Just, consider us on a first name basis, alright?"

"As soon as I spent a night bleeding out onto you, I considered you Tony," Peter revealed with another small laugh. Tony bit the inside of his cheek.

"You are one weird civilian," He said again.

"The praise just keeps on coming, doesn't it?"

"I rest my case," Tony continued, giving Peter a pointed look, which Peter ignored.

In silence, they enjoyed each other's company, resting against the wall. Tony got up intermediately, pacing the room for a few minutes before sitting down next to Peter again to share a small thought, occasionally making him laugh.

Suddenly, they both froze as they heard the lock click again. Peter's heart dropped to his stomach, and he couldn't stop the hitch in his breath. Tony glanced at his roommate, then to the door, his face set.

The woman was there, again, her poisoned smile set on her face.

"Gentlemen," She greeted them, spreading her arms. "Good morning, I trust?"

"I missed the continental breakfast," Peter said without missing a beat, but his body language spoke another story. He wasn't looking at her. He wasn't even standing. He sat, back to the wall, staring straight ahead.

"I'll have to talk to my staff," She said playfully. Tony's stony expression didn't budge.

"So," She continued professionally, "My first appointment this morning is with Mr. Stark, here. If you would," She gestured to the door.

"If you think for one moment I'm walking out that door with you . . ." He said in a low voice.

"I do, in fact. Or, I can take Peter first, and come back for you afterward," She said, her voice equally low. The smile was still plastered on her face, hanging creepily beneath unfeeling eyes.

Peter's breathing choked for a moment from his sat position against the door. Tony walked to the door wordlessly, not looking Peter or the woman in the eyes. "Let's go, then." His words were impatient but his face was stoic.

"See you later," He said to Peter, glancing back at his roommate.

"In a while, crocodile."

"I'm sure you saw our handiwork concerning our young patient, yesterday, no?" The woman led Tony down the corridor.

"Handiwork? You're crazy," Tony scoffed, running his hand through his curls, wishing he could have a nice wash. Maybe even a spa day. "You're gonna kill him."

"Eventually, almost certainly," She smiled down at Tony from her several inch heels.

Tony felt goosebumps appear along his arms.

"Regardless, you can be helpful in your own way," She paused next to a door and gestured for someone to come forward. Slowly, the man who had left a bleeding Peter in their doorway walked up, his dark hair slicked back.

"This is Oscar, and for all intents and purposes, he is your lab assistant," She clapped her hands, a bright look in her eyes. "Come," She gestured to the door next to them. With a small click, it swung open.

"I've collected some of Peter's blood in order to create a healing serum," She said pointing to a large glass container which held something deep and red. Tony felt his stomach heave once as he stared at it. "Of course," she continued, walking around the small lab, "This is just a small sample, set aside for you. The rest is for me to . . . play with."

"Oh, a scientist, are you?" Tony said acidically, eyes still glued to the sample.

"Doctor actually, and scientist." There was a hint of pride in her voice that didn't go unnoticed.

"Doctor?" At that, he ripped his gaze away. "What the fuck happened to the Hippo Oath then, _Doctor?_ " He spat at her feet, rage burning beneath his eyes.

"Not that kind of doctor," She said, stalking to the front of the room, crazed happy look vanished from her gaze. "I recommend you watch your tone with me, Mr. Stark."

"No promises. Being cooped up for over a day can make anyone a little crazy," Tony said as he rolled his eyes and mimed being crazy for a moment. The woman turned decidedly away from him, staring at the whiteboard.

"All I require of you is your mind, Mr. Stark," She said, breathing deeply out of her nose. "I did not exactly plan on you being here, but now that you are, it'd be nothing less than stupid to ignore your great talent."

"So what would you have me and my talent do?" Tony said with dread, glancing at Peter's blood again.

"Create a healing serum from Peter's blood," She said, shrugging as if it were obvious.

"Don't you already have one?" Tony said, running his hands through the shelves, looking for supplies.

"Is that what Peter told you?" She asked, furrowing her brows.

"Yeah. After you _torture_ him, you inject him to heal him up." Tony wasn't successful in keeping his voice steady and the anger seeped through.

The woman laughed out loud. "Yes, that _is_ what we do, isn't it?" She laughed again.

Tony swiveled his gaze to her, incredulity written across his face. "What's so funny, Doc?"

"Nothing, Mr. Stark. Nothing at all," She flashed him a sickly smile.

"I'll leave you to it then," She said, walking back toward the door. "Oscar will be right outside if you need anything."

"Does Oscar have any experience?" Tony asked, the question slipping out as if it were a normal job, in a normal lab.

"Experience?" She cocked her head, in faux-thought for a moment. "No. But you'll have to make due. Besides, you love working alone." With that, she shut the door behind herself, and Tony was alone once more.

 _Is this how it had been for Tony yesterday?_ Peter wondered from his perch several feet off the ground. _Alone, scared, and more than anything, bored?_ Somehow, he felt relaxed up here. More relaxed than he had yet in this place, anyway. It reminded him that he was still Spider-Man, he was still himself.

He had tried several positions in the hour or two he had been left alone so far. If he had just had his web shooters, he'd already be swinging back and forth in a hammock strung from the ceiling. But then again, Tony would definitely notice that.

Suddenly, the door unlocked and opened with a bang.

"Peter?" The woman crossed her arms. "Come down from there, we have work to do."

"What did you do with Tony?" He asked immediately, dropping down from his crouch against the wall.

"He's fine. We're putting his smart mind to use." She waved her hand. "Now, come on."

Peter didn't move.

"Do I have to motivate you, Mr. Parker?" She used his real name like a bullet, piercing his ears. "Mr. Stark does not yet know your true identity. If you'd like to keep it that way, then Move. Along."

Peter was stock-still for one more moment, staring at her - staring _through_ her - but then, he pulled his feet in front of him, and followed her out the door, one step after another. His Spidey-sense screamed for him to do anything than this, to go anywhere else other than here. His strength itched right underneath his skin, begging to be released in the form of punching the woman in front of him as hard as he possibly could. But, instead, he walked along, behind her, his steps meek and small.

The room was just as he remembered it from yesterday, but there was a strong smell of antiseptic chemicals coating the pseudo-lab, and there wasn't a trace left of the blood he had spilled not twenty-four hours earlier.

Peter lingered in the doorway as the woman strode in, pulling her hair into a ponytail that fell down her back.

"Peter, we've been over this. Come in, make yourself comfortable." She gave him a bemused look, and returned to the clipboards in front of her, a small smile on her face.

Peter, slowly and with trepidation approached the chair again, waiting next to it. _I should probably appreciate my ability to stand without help for now,_ he thought morbidly to himself.

"When you get up, can you lie on your side for me?" The woman asked distractedly, glancing up from her paperwork.

He climbed up, lying on his left side. His back felt exposed, and he couldn't stop the shaking in his fingers, so he clenched them into fists as tight as he could, and focused on breathing. That was one thing he could control - for now, anyway.

"Today, we should have a fairly short day," The woman said, walking over to the chair. She had glasses pushed up on the top of her head, and was looking down at Peter with a calculating eye. In her right hand, weighing down her whole right side, hung a large mallet, the handle thick and wooden.

"What's that for?" Peter asked, unable to take his eyes off it.

"Your femur," She said, running her hand up his upper leg, drawing goosebumps. Peter shivered and fought against every urge in his body to pull his leg away.

"I'm going to tie you down, and then we can get started," She said, placing the hammer on the chair next to Peter's chest.

Awkwardly, she pulled the strap over Peter's ankles and tied them down as best as she could in his position on his side. She tied down both wrists on the same arm, forcing his back to be hunched.

"And so we begin," She said, for no one's benefit other than her own.

"Do we have to?" Peter asked, his voice muffled. She ignored him.

She picked the hammer up, and notched it above her shoulder. Counting silently, her lips moving, she drew it up higher until it was hovering above her head. Peter couldn't control his fear, he couldn't control his Spidey-Sense, he couldn't control _anything._

His whole body was shaking, and his eyes were tightly closed, as though if he couldn't see the situation, the situation would disappear.

After a moment that felt like an eternity, the mallet fell.

Peter wasn't sure what was louder - his scream, or the crack of his femur that seemed to reverberate around the room. If Tony was still in his cell, he surely would have heard that . . . right? He couldn't stop the tears forming in the corner of his eyes or the feeling coming from his right leg, a feeling worse than yesterday.

It didn't dissipate, it didn't reach a steady throb. He could feel the bones underneath his skin move against each other with every stolen breath, and out of the corner of his teary eye, could see the skin, already black and blue.

"I'll release you to your cell, Mr. Parker. I want to see how long it takes to heal on its own."

Peter couldn't say anything, even if he wanted to. His breaths were gasps, his head was rushing, and he couldn't seem to focus on anything longer than a split-second. Somewhere, beneath all the terror and pain and despair, he wished Tony was there, he wished he could fall asleep on his shoulder again and wake up with a smile.


	5. Chapter 5

The cell was empty when Peter returned, but he barely noticed. The pain emanating from his leg was all - consuming, all-encompassing. He wouldn't have even noticed if the cell had been on fire.

As soon as the woman released her grip on him, he collapsed to the floor, helpless and completely at a loss to stand. He pounded his fist on the cement floor underneath him, something in him trying to right himself. It was to no avail.

"I'll be back tomorrow to take X- Rays," She said, closing the door slowly behind her. Peter watched her go, his vision swimming.

Soon, he was alone. His thoughts ran together, and nothing seemed real expect the pain. But, almost worse than the pain was the knowledge that his leg would have to be rebroken and set. Even in this haze, Peter's mind was connecting the dots and anticipating the future, even if his person was bordering on unconscious. He couldn't muster up the strength to make his way to the wall or to the bathroom, so, at long last, his eyelids slipped shut, and his eyes rolled back in the head.

Peter awoke with a dry scratchy feeling in his throat, and a deep throbbing coming from his lower half, but his mind felt clear. Clearer than it had in hours. He dragged himself into a sitting position. Blood rushed to his head, and for a moment, he only saw black.

He blinked rapidly, looking around. Slowly, his vision and balance righted themselves, and he noticed with a small pang that his cell was still empty. He hoped that, wherever Tony was, he was okay. He didn't have a healing factor, he'd be fine, right? No reason to target the great Tony Stark. He hoped that would be true. Peter bit his bottom lip, and wrapped his hands around his thigh, slowly pulling it closer to him, doing his best to ignore the pain. He couldn't stop the whimpers that escaped his lips.

He couldn't decide if he wished Tony was there or if he was glad for the privacy. On one hand, it'd be nice ( _more than nice,_ he thought fleetingly) to see a friendly face, but on another, he wasn't presenting his best self right now.

He let his head roll back on his shoulders until his gaze was trained on the ceiling above him, enjoying the stretch in his muscles. He breathed out heavily through his mouth, and tried (unsuccessfully) to think of anything else other than his now broken femur, but the only thing coming to his mind was the smile of his cellmate, and the deceptively sweet eyes that came with it.

"Peter?" A shaky voice broke his concentration as Peter's awareness slowly came back into focus.

"Aunt May?" He asked, looking around.

"No-no, it's Tony," The voice bit back something else.

"Oh right," He said slowly, Tony's face coming into focus, along with everything else. "What's up?"

"What's _up_?" Tony asked, taking Peter's hand. Peter looked down at their hands, confusion hitting the wall in his brain when everything seemed to have stopped working.

"Nothing is _up,_ what did they do?" Tony ran his gaze up and down his cellmate, still gripping his hand, like it proved Peter was alright, it proved that he was breathing.

Something acidic and hot rose in Peter's throat, and he pushed it back down with a struggle before saying, "She broke my femur."

Tony closed his eyes against the words. "Fuck."

"That about sums it up," Peter agreed brokenly.

"They didn't set it?" Tony asked after another pause.

"Why bother? It'll heal in fourteen hours, and they'll just break it again and _then_ set it." Peter's voice was harsh, but there was the underlying sound of a shivering whimper with every word. For a moment, the only thing either of them could hear in their cell was their own breathing, Tony's quick and hurried, Peter's ragged.

"We can set it," Tony said suddenly. "I've never met a problem I couldn't solve, and I'm not about to let that bitch set me back."

Peter looked down at his leg, black and blue and swollen, and then back up at the older man kneeling above him.

"What?"

"We can set it. We're going to set it," Tony's voice was determined now, and he began to search the room for materials to work with.

"How?" Peter asked, but he didn't stop the light of hope that flashed in his eyes.

"Here," Tony procured a toilet plunger from their tiny cell bathroom. "A cast."

"The height of science, you truly are a visionary," Peter said, smiling thinly.

"For someone with a broken leg, you're very catty. I could just leave you to suffer," Tony said, without looking at Peter.

For some unspoken reason, Peter couldn't imagine Tony standing by while he was in pain.

"Now," Tony started, a weird look in his eyes, "I usually would take you to dinner or something first, but we're a little strapped for cash in here." And, without warning, he pulled off his shirt.

Peter didn't say anything at first, but his mouth fell open, and for a moment - a glorious, wonderful moment - he forgot about the pain in his leg.

"I need something to tie the splinter with," Tony explained after Peter had been gaping for a suitably awkward amount of time.

"Right." Peter found his voice again. "Of course."

"Besides," Tony continued, beginning to tear his shirt into strips, "You've been shirtless since yesterday, so I thought it was only fair."

"Yeah, well, I didn't exactly choose my outfit. Although I suppose it is 'prison chic'," Peter said, twirling his fingers in a poor imitation of a model.

"You look good in boxers," Tony said with a smirk.

Peter felt his face turn red, and he ignored the compliment. Tony swept past his blush, and got back to business.

"Now, I wouldn't lie to you, would I?" Tony said, getting to his knees next to Peter, wielding the toilet plunger.

"You tell me," Peter said apprehensively, eyes glued to the plunger.

"I wouldn't. So, believe me when I say, this isn't going to hurt at all," There was an obvious smirk in Tony's voice, and he looked at Peter with an expression that said ' _Well, what can you do?'_

"Is this where you pretend to count to five, but actually set my bone on three?" Peter asked, dread beginning to creep up in him, but it was significantly less dread than he had felt when the woman had raised the hammer. The memory flashed through him - (falling, crack, _pain) -_ \- and he shut his eyes against it as if it would will the memory to go black.

"Again, would I lie to you?" Tony said with a shake of his head.

Peter just took a deep breath and focused his eyes on the ceiling.

"Whenever you're ready," he told Tony, wishing he could have stopping the shaking in his voice.

Tony yanked the rubber end of the plunger off and threw it behind him. He made sure the strips of his shirt were at the ready as soon as he needed them, and then pulled Peter's leg slightly closer to him carefully, wincing in sympathy with Peter's tiny moan.

"You do know what you're doing, right?" Peter asked, breathing heavily, his hands in fists on the floor.

"I have three PhDs," Tony said, doing one more once-over on his supplies.

"That does not answer my question," Peter said flatly, his voice still shaking slightly.

"No time to argue about it," He said. "I am the most qualified person in this room." He glanced up and looked Peter in the eyes. "On that note, get ready."

Peter gave a quick nod and proceeded to stare straight ahead. This was gonna hurt like a _mother._

Tony placed the rod against Peter's upper leg, immobilizing almost his entire leg, from the hip to the knee. Peter let out a gasp of pain when the plunger came into contact with his dark bruises, clenching his jaw when he realized that the worst was yet to come.

"Take a deep breath kid," Tony said, furrowing his brows in concentration.

With that, he pushed heavily on Peter's femur, forcing the fragments to reconnect, at least to the best of his abilities.

Peter screamed, unable to hold back. He reached out and gripped Tony's shoulder instinctually, rasping in breathes.

Tony tied the plunger to his leg as tightly and as quickly as he could, glancing up at Peter's pained face every few seconds just to check on him. Peter didn't move his hand from his shoulder, instead squeezing his hand in time with the tightening of the strips.

"All done," Tony said finally.

Peter took a few more deep breathes, steadying himself.

"Thank you," Peter said, his voice grating.

"Anytime," Tony said casually, rolling down from his kneeling position to sit against the wall.

"Sorry," Peter said suddenly, awkwardly removing his hand from Tony's bare shoulder.

"No need to say sorry. I get it." He winked at Peter, and laughed.

His laugh was infectious to Peter, who cracked a grin, which, despite wavering through the pain, grew into a small bark of laughter as Tony kept looking at him in a certain way. Afterward, Tony looked almost triumphant, as though he was proud of the laughter.

"So," Peter said, doing anything to ignore the pain. "What did you do today, other than this?" He gestured to the misshapen mess that was his leg and the plunger rod which was tied to him with long black cotton strips.

"Well, I spent the whole day staring at your blood," Tony said candidly.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm supposed to 'fashion a new healing serum out of the healing properties of your blood,' or something." Tony waved his hand. "They didn't really explain it very well."

"Did you . . ." Peter swallowed heavily, avoiding the other man's gaze. "Did you examine it?"

"No. Fuck 'em." Tony shrugged as though he had no cares in the world. _Maybe he didn't,_ Peter thought.

"Fuck 'em?" Peter repeated, crossing his arms. He was ready to listen to Tony rant. Or talk. Or do just about anything even minorly distracting.

"Let them do their own damn work if they're such good scientists," he said, blowing out an annoyed sigh. "Besides," he twisted and looked at Peter head-on, "I've got my hands full with you, anyway."

"Oh, no," Peter said before he could stop himself.

"Oh, _yes_ you mean," Tony responded, his cocky grin back in place beneath his perfect nose and shock of black hair. His lips were pulled back, somehow still smooth and not chapped at all despite only having one meal in the past thirty-six hours. There were dimples in the corners of his cheeks, and small wrinkles were forming in the corners of his eyes, like he laughed a lot. Peter blinked rapidly. He had been staring. Again. Tony acted like he hadn't even noticed, and the grin didn't move at all.

Peter wasn't sure if he was being given a free pass (which, again, he deserved), or if Tony was just really that oblivious. Something, a glint in his eye, a flick of his tongue, made Peter believe he probably wasn't oblivious. He didn't think Tony was oblivious to just about anything.

 _Other than the fact that I'm Spider-Man._ The thought lingered in the back of his head for a moment; it wouldn't leave. He missed it - _God,_ he missed it. In here, there was no wind, there was no flying, there was no falling. There was just gray, cement, and pain. _But there was Tony though,_ his brain seemed to say.

He shook his head quickly, and glanced at Tony, as if worried he would be listening in on his thoughts. But he was just sitting peacefully against the wall. His hands were crossing over his lap, and his head was tilted back as he seemed to rest, his eyes closed delicately. In that moment, Peter wouldn't have been surprised if Tony _was_ listening in on his thoughts.

"What are you thinking about?" Peter was surprised to hear the words, even though they were coming out of his own mouth.

Tony opened one eye and surveyed him, raising the same eyebrow.

"Fine wine," He said, nonplussed.

"Right," Peter said, nodding slowly and looking over the wall as Tony closed his eyes again. He bit his lip. _Stupid question!_ Peter glanced back at him, making sure his eyes were closed, and then settled his gaze on the dozing figure. He was shirtless - just like Peter - but he didn't seem uncomfortable or taken aback by it. If anything, he seemed to be more at ease. There was a slight rise in his chest as he breathed, but it was shallow, letting on to the fact that he wasn't really sleeping.

"What are _you_ thinking about?"

If Peter hadn't watched Tony's lips move, he wouldn't have believed that he had spoken at all. His eyes were still closed, but there was a smile in his voice, and a quirk upwards in his mouth.

 _You,_ Peter almost said, but he bit his tongue just before he spoke. "Home," he said after a beat, his voice sounding more sincere than he meant it to.

"What is home, then, to you?" Tony asked, opening his eyes and propping himself up onto an elbow.

"Queens," Peter said automatically.

"I'm more of a Malibu man myself," Tony said almost wistfully, staring at something Peter couldn't see.

"Imagining margaritas on the beach?" he asked, curling his lips into his own smirk.

"And then some," Tony said, giving a Peter a look that said, _And then a lot more 'some'._

"What's the first thing you'll do when we get out?" Tony asked suddenly.

" _If_ we get out, you mean," Peter said darkly.

"Stick with me, and we'll get out," he assured him, but Peter remained unconvinced.

"Where exactly am I going to go with this leg?" he asked ruefully, poking at it with a wince as he spoke.

"Well, it'll heal in a day, thanks to Dr. Evil Miracles, right?" Tony said matter of factly.

"Sure," said Peter, eyeing his leg distrustfully, like it had gone and decided to get broken.

"So, that gives us a day to figure out how to get out of here, right?" Tony was speaking to Peter like he was a puppy, but for once in his life, Peter didn't mind it. He let himself nod along to Tony's grand ideas of escape (which included Iron Man Mark 36 and massive machine guns, as well as a particularly creative plan that involved the Beatles, daggers, and a massive trench coat). Tony's voice was excited and cocky, and Peter hung onto it, laughing when he should laugh, looking disapproving when he should look disapproving, and making suggestions as to when, who, what and where they should go and do when (if) they escaped.


End file.
